


Castigation

by SuperImposed



Series: Kinkfills: Drabbles and General Fills Edition [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dualscar gets confusing feelings, Gen, Kinkfill, Public Punishment, Swordwhipping, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperImposed/pseuds/SuperImposed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I really, really want to see Dualscar (or anyone, but he's my favourite for this idea) being beaten with the flat side of a swordblade, preferably his own, against his will, in front of a large crowd. Bonus if it goes on long enough that the sword breaks."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Found here: http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39716.html?thread=45092388#cmt45092388
> 
> I'd like to point out that the commentary here is not meant to shame BDSM participants. It's more Dualscar's personal "Why the fuck am I feeling like this" reaction.

You really fucked up this time.  
  
Part of you knows it could be worse. A lot worse - your horns and fins are still intact, your lusus is still alive, and hell, you've even still got your pants on!   
  
(Fuck, is that seriously a plus? You are in such deep shit.)  
  
You try to concentrate on these scant blessings as the next strike lands. You suppose you could also be grateful that a truly professional troll is delivering your punishment. Each hit is carefully calculated, not haphazard near-flaying like you've seen some bastards endure (or not, in the worst cases...).  
  
She laddered the initial blows in measured lines up and down your segmented thoracic strut, then paused, letting the harsh wind burn across the stinging wounds. Just as you started becoming accustomed to the pain, she brought the blade down diagonal to the previous strikes, near and parallel with your left vestigial wing anchor. The discipline - or to be more accurate, _spectacle_ \- continued in similar vein. She lulls you into a pattern, before breaking it for maximum efficiency.   
  
And despite the dozens - no, nearly a hundred - blows she's landed on you, only now is blood beginning to trickle down your torso, from blunt-force cracks in your plates rather than slips of the blade. She's not just an E%ecutor, she's a fucking _artist_.  
  
(You don't know if you want to hire her, shoot her, or pail her.)  
  
Loathe and confused as you are to admit it, her controlled and tidy technique almost evokes... feelings. Definitely not flushed, and not really pitch - you can't exactly contend with her right now, chained and kneeling at her feet as you are - but still, the sensation alone is reminiscent of Imperial Drone Nights of old.  
  
(You're such a damn freak.)  
  
\---------  
  
It's only as the gasps and trills of the crowd wash over your ringing sponge clots that you realize how quiet the square has gone. And it's only when the neatly broken half of her (your) rapier clinks onto the concrete that you realize just why that last _CRACK!_ had been so loud.  
  
Ha. It's not just your pan that's hard.  
  
This is not the most dignified thought you could have before passing out face-first into a pool of your own blood.  
  
\---------  
  
On the (still scant) upside, you wake up blessedly numb in a cheap, shallow medicorrupter re'coon. Your wounds are bound, which you assume means the Empress has either forgiven you or (more likely) grown bored of seeing you smacked around. Either way, you weren't culled while insensate, so you're chalking this up as a win.  
  
(Can your life get any more fucking pathetic? You think not.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This part is optional reading and I felt it didn't quite fit with the first segment.

You don't bother waiting for a doctorturer - you just lug your stinging carcass out of the slime, grab the coat hanging on the door, and stalk outside. The sea air invades your cuts and cracks even through the precise plasterwraps, and every muscle in your back (and then some) burns with the effort of just **walking**. Still, you hold your pan up high until you reach the _Saltswept_.  
  
Only once you finally reach your own respiteblock, door shut and locked firmly behind, do you begin to sag. You flop your sorry self into your desk chair and take a moment to just empty and fill your vascular sacs (as much as you can, anyways).  
  
You sweep sopor-rimmed oculars over half-made plans and defaced maps, before finally pounding the intercommunication button. “Helmsman.” (Goddamn, is that _your_ voice? You need a drink. Or six.)  
  
A quivering voice crackles over the sonic projection meshblocks. “Captain?” Hah, you still strike a little fear into _somebody_ , at least.  
  
You need to get in good with the Empress. You need to impress (ha) her. Even though literally everyone and their lusus knows that this escapade will end the same as all the others - with you impotently shaking a bloodied fist at the aft of the cerulean she-witch's hideous vessal, with nothing to show for your efforts beyond more injuries, more frustrations, and if you’re _extremely_ lucky, another pail for the drones.   
  
“Set course for the Blueshore Bay.”


End file.
